


Wolf's Nest

by crush (beekeepercain)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Fingering, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Marking, Oral Play, Switching, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 21:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8816398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/crush
Summary: Sam's hurt, and Dean needs to reassure himself that he's still right there, still close, still alive.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilovejared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovejared/gifts).



> Request by [@ilovejared](http://ilovejared.tumblr.com). <3

* * *

 

 

Dean helps Sam through the doorway. He's slippery with blood, but Sam's laughing about the pain even as he collapses on the chair. The crisp chill of the midwinter night follows them in through the door to the motel room, but as Sam's breathing settles again, Dean slams the door closed in the face of the brewing snowstorm.

"How're you holding up?" he asks breathlessly, already bending down to dig the first-aid kit from the tattered bag sitting on the floor. He's in a hurry, uncertain how badly the werewolf clawed his brother up, but Sam just makes an indifferent sound and places his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Dean," he calls him, voice raspy but its tone rather amused, "I'm fine, I swear."

"There's a shitload of blood coming out of you for someone who's 'fine', Sammy."

"It's nothing, really. Just a few cuts."

Dean growls.  
"Undress," he tells Sam, who obeys by pulling off his shirt, letting out a small hissing sound in response to the pain his movements cause him.  
"Just a few cuts," the older brother repeats under his breath, pissed off, "That thing was going all out on you."

"Well, it didn't kill me."

"No, but just because I got lucky with my shot. Sam, you could have -"

Sam's palm presses over Dean's cheek as Dean kneels in front of him, already squirting alcohol on a clean towel. He jumps to the touch, but Sam turns his head up until they're facing each other, and the younger brother shakes his head.

"I didn't," he reminds Dean with a gentle, reassuring voice, "I'm fine. I could have, but I didn't, thanks to you. It's over. I'm alright."

Another suppressed grunt leaves Dean's throat. He wrestles his head free although Sam still runs his fingers through his hair, combing through the moisture from the melting snow caught in it. For a while, they're quiet; there's not much to say as Dean cleans up the cuts bleeding onto Sam's exposed belly, nor when he starts stitching them up. In the end, when the man's body is clean and dry again and his cuts are closed, Dean leans his head against his side and breathes in the scents of blood and alcohol and his brother somewhere buried beneath the medical fumes.

"Could have lost you tonight."

Sam's palm rests over his head again. Dean nuzzles his nose into the soft warmth of his brother's flesh and he kisses him over his bruised ribs, dragging it to last longer and longer until his lips finally lift from Sam's skin. They share a look, and there's a quiet understanding there - an agreement of sorts. Dean needs this now: he needs to feel Sam, and Sam's already growing hard. It's an easy current to get caught in.

"You want something before...? A drink, somethin'."

Sam chuckles.  
"We could both use a drink," he admits, and Dean can't help but agree.

They both take a mouthful straight out of the bottle of whiskey, and then Sam's standing up. He's still a little weak in the legs but now that the bleeding's stopped and the painkillers are kicking in, at least the disorientation has lost its edge over him and he can walk on his own again. He turns off the lights, and in the glow of the motel room window he motions Dean to follow with a nod of his head towards the bed - a queen, for budget reasons more than anything else. They're used to sharing, even if they'll always choose not to if they can afford it. It's the last shred of privacy they can hold onto in a life like theirs, but when it's convenient, it's...

Dean presses his hands over Sam's shoulders and leads him down on the bed and on his back. Usually, it's the other way around; it's Sam's firm fingers pressing Dean's wrists into the pillows, his iron-like grip adjusting his hips wherever he wants them. Tonight Dean's in charge, and the scene will be a whole another beast: Sam's a little tense, aching through every inch of his battered body, but a need's a need. When Dean lifts his hips over Sam's, the man lets out a small, low growl that vibrates inside Dean's core. He smirks and bends down, his body rocking near unnoticeably over Sam's hips, and he presses a kiss between Sam's collarbones, fingers dragging through the soft hair over his chest and along the trail down his belly until his nails brush against the hard waist of his jeans. A displeased sound escapes Dean's throat: it's lost on Sam's skin, and Sam's own voice echoes it.

Sam's not one to crave touches, to beg for them - it's Dean's job, really, to be the one pressing close and praying for more, _more_ of that contact he denies himself in every other aspect of his life. But Sam knows how to get his brother heated up, knows exactly how irresistible Dean finds it when he curves his body against Dean's in response to his touches, how much it means to Dean to feel his hips twitch under contact. How much, in truth, Dean craves the feeling of being needed, desired, and all that Sam can deliver. Right now he's a little shaky, his breaths cutting off and trembling as he lets them out, and he's sore and he's battered and Dean wants to kiss him through to make it all go away. Sam's long fingers trail the back of Dean's neck, then down along his shirt, and he drags it up gently and carefully, somehow making Dean feel as if he's fragile and precious under the touches, something that should be treated with respect and love. Sam's trying to meet his eyes, but Dean looks away.

He's not very good at accepting affection, regardless of how much he needs it.

Instead, he presses down against Sam once more. His own cock, half-hard inside his snow-wet jeans, throbs when it feels Sam's beside it, separated by all too many layers of clothing between them. He can feel just how hard Sam is, too, and how damn big he is. Warm, too: his heat is radiating through the clothes, and Dean finds himself shivering against him.

"You alright?" Sam asks him, the tip of his index finger running over Dean's nipple.

Dean nods: his eyes are caught over Sam's chest, tracing the shape of his muscles under his skin, but he's not really seeing any of that. He's lost in the feeling of him so close - so alive, despite the lingering smell of his injuries and the wolf's nest they left an hour ago. Then he nods again, flashing a grin as he finally looks back at Sam.

"Need you," he mouths and leans into a kiss.

Sam's a strange kisser. He goes at it like he's starving, his teeth nipping at Dean's lips and his tongue trailing the shape of his mouth, while Dean's more there to receive that hunger, to feel it, to experience it. His fingers fist up in Sam's tangled hair, feel the smoothness, the softness of it against his skin, and he pulls back to make his brother whimper. With his neck exposed, Dean moves to kiss that instead; he runs his tongue along the familiar tracks there, invisible but mapped in his mind as clearly as the highways they grew up on, and his body shakes with desire, all but conditioned to respond with a driving need to the taste of this one man who's stood with him through it all. They rock against each other, heated and aching inside their jeans, as Dean moves his mouth over to Sam's collarbones again, then down from there and over his chest. The soft hair parts under his breath and touches, and he traces over it with his lips, breathing the other's scent in with every drag of air, and his tongue moves through the curls leaving behind a wet trail all the way until his mouth curves around Sam's nipple and starts sucking on it. His fingers run down his belly all the way to the buckle of his belt, which they open smoothly; he's done this a thousand times, and he hopes he'll get to do it a thousand more. There's nowhere on earth he feels more content and accepted in than he does on top of his brother, surrounded by his warmth and under his touches, feeling the firm hold of his hands over his hips just like now when Sam tugs down his jeans. He snakes out of them, his skin prickling as the hard edge of his belt digs into his flesh, but then the hold loosens up and he's nude against Sam whose body's still covered. The exposure makes Dean shudder and he sits up, adjusts slightly so that his heavy cock rests against the bulging front of Sam's jeans, and he grins to hide the vulnerability in him, the fear that somehow this time, Sam doesn't approve of what he sees.

Yet, there's nothing but desire in the way Sam looks at him, nothing but pure affection and longing. He drags his palm over Dean's chest, and Dean does the same for him, following down onto his abdomen which twitches under his touch, and Sam lets out a breathless chuckle as Dean's fingertips play around with his treasure trail, circling in it until he's drawn a spiralling path to his open belt. There, he unbuttons Sam's jeans, and he spreads open his fly: he closes his eyes as he grabs his cock and drags it over the fabric of Sam's underwear, the smooth cotton-polyester mix hot as it gets caught between their bodies. He swallows and hears Sam gasps quietly, and when he opens his eyes, Sam's are now closed.

Like a large cat moving in to pounce, Dean kneels over Sam's body and presses his mouth over his cock still covered with cloth. He kisses along its length, stripping the jeans out along the way until Sam's wearing nothing but his boxer-briefs, and as he pushes off the jeans completely, his mouth moves to kiss his brother over his inner thighs, making him shiver with pleasure and anticipation. It's a slow game when Dean's in the lead; with Sam, they'd be panting by now, painted with sweat and traces of a rough climax clinging to their skins, bruised, scratched and throughoutly pleased. It's the way Sam prefers it, like the night to Dean's slow-burning sunrise, the falling off a cliff to Dean's long climb from the bottom of a mountain to its highest peak. Dean's patient while Sam's a creature of war - they love accordingly, slow and fast, gentle and rough. There's never been a grey area for them, nor have they ever longed for one: this is the way it goes for them, and it's the only way they know how to show love.

A shuddering gasp escapes Sam when Dean's teeth mark the sides of his erection. He's careful not to do more than hint at a grip before teeth turn to lips and he sucks gently through the cloth still separating them, but it makes Sam tremble and his nails drag lightly over Dean's bare back, and Dean shivers in response to it, his mouth full of the taste of freshly-washed clothes. When he pulls up, he swallows down the taste and smirks.

"I can't do this to you, Sammy," he utters quietly, stretching, teasing; "You're too hurt."

"Shut up," Sam grunts and slaps him playfully over the side of his arm.

"You sure you can handle me right now?"

" _You're_ gonna get handled if you don't stop teasing me right now, Dean, I swear to -"

Dean laughs. His fingers dig under the waistband of Sam's last line of defense against him, and he pulls his underwear off, swallowing thickly at the rush of arousal inside him when he finally sees the man in full. So thick, and already beading at the tip; needy, all because of Dean. Then, just like that, he's on his feet again and out the bed. Sam's whimper follows him through the room and leaves an echo in his mind, one that raises the fine hair over his neck up even as he bends down to dig out the lube from the same bag they keep their first-aid kit inside. He brings it back and finds himself trembling now, his legs weak and unstable. He's grateful when he gets to fall back on the bed with Sam, who reaches for the lube but Dean snatches it away from him.

"As I said," Dean tells him in a silky voice, "You're too hurt. Sit back and enjoy."

Sam's about to growl, about to complain, but the promise of something more than just teasing shuts him up quickly enough. He pulls himself partially up from the bed, packs up their pillows against the bed's headboard and leans his back into them before letting Dean climb back on his lap, and Dean's already wet his fingertips with a thick coat of lube while he's settled into a better position. He rubs his fingertips together with a teasing grin on him before finally bringing them down his body: he straightens up and lets out a soft gasp when he presses them against his hole, coating it with the excess lube before pushing just a single fingertip inside. He watches Sam's expression that whole time, and the man seems breathless, stunned, his eyes flickering between the point where Dean's hand vanishes behind him and the manner Dean's muscles twitch to pleasure, to the way his cock hanging between them sometimes bobs as he pushes his finger deeper inside, sparking a wave of pleasure throughout his body.

Really, this is the only place Dean feels safe enough to let go. It took years, almost a decade, for him to relax into it, but he knows now that he doesn't have to pretend here. He doesn't need a role: all he has to do is present himself as he is, and Sam will lap it up alright. It's not always this way around; sometimes, he's the one getting inside Sam, even while Sam's in his beast mode, the kind that requires Dean to literally wrestle him into submission. Most of the time, no one's getting inside anyone at all: whenever there's time, whenever they can rely on the world to spin on its own for a few hours at least, they like to take the long way through. They like to suck, kiss, lick; they like to rub with their fingers, massage with their palms, play around with each other's flesh by giving it just a finger or two at most. It can take a long time for either of them to come, but that way, they can do it multiple times - another accidental discovery they ran into over time, and one that also required quite a few damn years to get accustomed to, but still something that feels natural to them today. This time, they're simply both tired, both needy, and both drunk on life and the taste of death lingering on their lips, and Dean wants to feel Sam inside him, wants to feel one with him again as wholly as he can, and this is the only way he knows how to. A little impatiently, he brings another finger inside him, then pulls it out almost right away and grips Sam's hand instead: he takes his brother's finger against his relaxed, hot hole and guides it inside, and Sam closes his eyes and shivers as he pushes it deeper.

He's got long fingers, and Dean's learned the hard way how goddamn good they feel as they curve into his flesh from the right angle. His whole skin is tingling with anticipation as Sam drags his finger out and then pushes it back in, the texture of his fingertip rubbing just the right way against Dean's sensitive flesh and the ring of muscle letting him through in a trained fashion. He dares to rock back a little, and Sam makes a sound as he feels his body sucking him deeper, and they kiss again, Dean leaning to nip at Sam's jaw and neck soon enough instead to relieve the tension and building frustration inside him. It doesn't take long for Sam to add another finger, and he brings them both deeper and rubs the tips against Dean's flesh in a way that seems to echo directly into his cock; the feeling of getting massaged from the inside out makes him shudder and gasp for air, and he's seeing small stars whenever he dares to close his eyes. His breathing's stuck inside his throat and he can't really control the way his body receives the touch, the way it thrusts back against Sam's hand between his legs. Then, barely a moment after the third finger's nearly driven Dean into an early orgasm, Sam pulls back and leaves him open and aching. Dean opens his eyes, holding back the pant caught inside his throat, and he makes a sound and rocks against Sam's belly, his pre-come staining his brother's skin, catching onto the tangle of dark hair over his lower abdomen. Sam lets out a chuckle and grabs his hips.

"You need something?" he asks, his voice barely more than a breathless whisper.

"You know damn fucking well that I need something, Sammy," Dean hears himself reply, and he feels like a cat when he pushes his face against Sam's neck, needy and aroused and _ready_.

The sensation of Sam inserting himself against Dean's hole makes his breath catch and he doesn't know how to let it out until the other's cock is buried deep inside him already. Then it comes out as a long, tortured moan: Sam rocks it by thrusting up just hard enough to make Dean's voice vibrate from the impact. Dean feels so damn full this way, and he knows Sam feels the same way, that they're both strangely complete now, like they're two halves that belong together this exact fashion, and there's nothing else and nowhere else they should be than right here, right now. It's a quiet sensation in the midst of the fire that sparkles and roars around them, heating up their bodies as they start rocking together, first carefully and as Dean's body relaxes into it, more aggressively, faster and deeper. Dean gets to set the rhythm for them, and despite the burn in his thighs he feels a driving need to chase the satisfaction that looms so close now - he can feel it building up and he's not even touching himself, and neither is Sam, and just the same he can feel Sam holding back from releasing right away inside him. His fingertips chase the fresh stitches but avoid touching them: the swollen skin around them, the heat of the healing flesh, is enough to remind him that it's a blessing that they're still here together. He gasps for air and then goes right for Sam's lips, and they press together and Sam's holding him, arms wrapped around his shaking body as he brings himself down on Sam's cock, feels it sink inside him as far as it can reach. His muscles grip it like his whole body wants to become one with it, like trying to hold onto it so that they'll never part, but Dean needs to move, and he can't stop doing so; he pulls up just to sink down again, and he's making sounds, low, purring sounds that mix together with Sam's held-back moans. They're both trained to be quiet from the long years spent without so much as the promise of privacy, but together, sometimes, they can forget about it. Not tonight: the hunt still lingers upon them, shutting them up even as pleasure threatens to drive them crazy.

Dean's teeth leave red marks that won't bloom into bruises onto Sam's neck and shoulders, but Sam's nails drag against his skin in a fashion that Dean knows is marking him: that if he'd strip his clothes off tomorrow for someone to see, they'd know that Sam's been there, claimed him, that they've been one and that it was _good,_ that it was so damn good that they couldn't stop touching throughout it. His heart flutters against his ribs and he pants loudly, moaning, trying to merge his whole body with Sam's by pressing closer, his spine curved so that his belly can touch Sam's, that he can feel Sam's heart beating against his own. His blood's rushing into his ears and he's gasping, and then suddenly, he freezes still: Sam does the same, anticipating the flood of pleasure rushing through Dean, then just with one more thrust, he unleashes that wave. It blinds Dean for a moment, and he doesn't know what he's saying but he knows he's saying something - words that would otherwise never leave him, perhaps, or merely a stream of curses as he tries to hang onto his sanity - and through it, he feels Sam going stiff underneath him, hears the held-back breath that he lets go as he finally releases inside Dean. The heat between them, the sweat and the sticky lube covering their laps, drags Dean back into reality: he's resting against Sam, with his brother's arms around him and holding him still, until it's over and the night's dark again and the sounds of the passing cars again echo through the thin walls.

A weary chuckle escapes Dean as he pulls up from Sam's lap.

"I'm gonna need a freaking shower," he mumbles as he tries to stop his legs from shaking by sitting on them.

Sam wipes off his wet hair from his face and laughs.  
"Yeah," he mumbles, "Think I'm just - gonna join you, actually."

"That - yeah. That's probably for the best."

Outside, thick clumps of snowflakes are still falling past the window, illuminated by the motel's large neon sign above them.

 


End file.
